Morning Has Broken
by HallowedSpecter
Summary: Or in other words, five times Sherlock saw the sun rise. Well, the five times he took any notice and the one time he ignored it again but for a more important reason than the other times he ignored it.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: One of those 'five times something happened' fics, inspired by the many sunrises I've witnessed but never really taken notice of. Review are always nice! **_

It was the first time he'd stayed up all night. He didn't feel like sleeping. Not now. Not ever again. Why did he have the right to sleep and wake up when his father couldn't? His father could never wake up again. Never walk through the grand front doors that were still just a few feet taller than him, drop his briefcase by the small table in the entrance hall and kneel down to sweep Sherlock into his arms as he ran at him full speed and crashed into his chest, rambling on about today's finding and how his latest experiments have revealed that girls are in fact _not _made of sugar and spice and everything nice.

All because of one stupid drunk driver. One stupid little man who decided he was fit to drive after drinking the number of units you should consume in a week in the space of three hours. And the worst part is that he survived and Sherlock's father didn't. The intoxicated bastard walked away with just a few cracked ribs and a mild concussion. Sherlock's father suffered a mind shattering blow to the head as he was flung from his moving vehicle and met the pavement with an almighty thud. At least that was the image that played through Sherlock's mind over and over. The police officer said he was killed instantly but he didn't believe that. How could anyone know? How could they possibly know whether the light left his eyes instantly or whether he lay there for a few agonizing minutes that felt like an eternity, hoping for somebody to help him. Wishing that he was at home. Regretting that he decided to go to that damned conference in Vienna and miss Sherlock as Bottom in the school production of _A Midsummer Night's Dream. _ And Sherlock has been a damn good Bottom too - in a review of the play, someone had written that 'Sherlock Holmes' Bottom would be well remembered,' which had made Mycroft laugh hysterically but Sherlock thought it was a rather nice thing to have said about himself. Anyway it was impossible to know just how long it took his father to die. Which may have been a blessing in disguise as Sherlock didn't really want to know.

Though his bedroom was on the opposite side of the house to the master bedroom, the silent empty corridors carried the hushed, heaving sobs of his mother underneath his door and filled the room with her grief. Sherlock couldn't deal with his own grief enough to sleep, let alone the overwhelming sadness emanating from his mother and the stony, stoic silence Mycroft had lapsed into ever since the police car pulled up to the front gates late last night. So he was awake at 4:30 in the morning, eyes red and swollen from being rubbed at to stop the tears from falling. He only realised what the time could be when he first noticed the end of his bed had a pale golden tint to it. He looked out of the window to see the first rays of sunlight creeping out from the horizon and was slightly shocked. The world was still turning. It hadn't stopped. It should have – the world had lost a loving husband, a caring father and in Sherlock's eyes, the greatest man. But a new dawn had risen and with it a new day had begun. Like what his father used to say, _Time and tide waits for no man, Sherlock. Remember that. _Sherlock finally closed his eyes, comforted by the fact that it wasn't the end of the world, and just like the Earth, he can keep on turning and travelling along his path around the Sun or whatever it was we went around. Not like it made a difference.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock looked up from his copy of _The Art of Memory _by Frances Yates as the room began to lighten, having a dimming effect on the lamp by his bed. Sunrise again. This was the third night in a row that he'd ushered in the beginning of a new day with barely a glance to the horizon before continuing to read about methods of loci. The idea seemed fascinating – a memory technique where you visualise a place and _store _memories in it by using objects that are already there or placing objects there. He had had a crack at _Ad Herennium _by Cicero and _Institutio Oratoria_ by Quintilian but translating the text from Latin and taking in what it was saying, although a good mental exercise, wasn't very efficient for actually learning about the technique.

But after reading this book, he felt fairly confident about having a go at building his own memory house. The best place to start with was somewhere you knew intimately well; where you could picture the placement of every piece of furniture and the contents of every single drawer. Sherlock closed his eyes and drank up the early morning silence as his mind pulled his childhood bedroom into focus. The blue walls brightened and the images of the double bed in the centre with the pirate duvet covers sharpened. He would have used his dorm here at university but the place was a tip and the first room of his memory house ought to be neat. He went for a quick stroll around the room, visualising himself running his hands across the table and opening the wardrobe.

Once the full scene was firmly in his mind he finally remembered that he had forgotten to decide what memories he was going to store in the first place. He had exams in a couple of months, but he didn't have to energy to get his other books out. He walked about the room in his head, opening drawers here and there until he came across a small box. Lifting the lid, he saw newspaper clippings and photographs and even a couple of evidence bags, all relating to one person. Carl Powers. Sherlock grinned and he emptied the box and called to mind all the facts he could remember about the case. This was what the first room would contain. This was where he'd begin. And after this, he could go through all his other cases, see if anything useful needed to be stored away…maybe he'd need something bigger than a mind house. Something more like a mind _palace._

**_A/N: This is the original length I intended each piece to be, but as you will be able to see from the next two chapters, that idea got away from me faster than Severus Snape confronted with shampoo. Review and I'll send you a virtual cookie!_**


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: I wrote the ending when I was in a particularly happy mood, so excuse the cheesy finish. **_

He opened his eyes tentatively as his vision swam into focus. Well, that had never happened before. Normally, when he was high, he didn't need to eat or sleep or do any of those boring, mundane tasks that ordinary people needed to do on a regular basis. The first seven times he was high…he felt like he was seeing clearly, like nothing was standing between him and what he wanted to do. He composed at the speed of light, saw patterns everywhere he looked, he felt like he knew everything there is to know. But it had been almost a year now and he was still searching. With every strip he tapped out onto the kitchen counter, with every snort whilst ignoring the burning sensation as the inside of his nostrils dissolved, he was searching for that feeling. That sense of being indestructible, undefeatable, like he owned the world, it was gone. And all that was left was this roaring destructive need that governed his every thought and action. If he wasn't doing cocaine he was actively searching for his next fix. And each time he did it, he would get those precious few minutes of satisfaction. But that length of time seemed to grow shorter as the lines grew thicker and the sense of paranoia increased to the extent that Sherlock would forgo blinking in case something would sneak up on him and get him in that millisecond that he had his eyes closed.

But today was the first time he had ever passed out after the rush of euphoria had left his mind. He had probably forgotten to feed himself again; that combined with the hunger supressing effects of the drug means he hasn't eaten for twice as long as he would usually go without food, meaning he hadn't eaten in…just over a week. Sherlock tried to push himself to standing but his legs collapsed under his weight. After another futile attempt at standing, he gave up and remained collapsed against the wall of some alleyway in the middle of London, shivering slightly as a cold winter breeze rustled past him. He wrapped his coat tighter around himself, rubbing his hands together for warmth. If he was lucky, someone would pass by and maybe he could grudgingly ask them to help him into a cab. He checked his watch. Or maybe not, since it was 1:47am and most ordinary people would still be asleep. Sherlock sighed and retrieved his phone from his pocket and turned it on. It looked like he would need to finally talk to Mycroft. As the phone powered on, he heard footsteps approaching the entrance of the alley. Determined not to have to call his brother, Sherlock gathered every remaining ounce of strength he had and used it to push himself to standing and stumble out of the alleyway into the arms of the shocked stranger. The man had short greying hair and a sturdy build and was not much shorter than Sherlock himself. He caught Sherlock as he fell and slung an arm around his waist to steady him without a second thought.

Sherlock gazed at the familiarity of the stranger, raking his drug-addled mind to find where he'd seen this man before. Then it hit him. "Inspector Lestrade," he greeted him and Lestrade looked up at Sherlock, finally realising who it was. "Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes? The bloke who's always trying to help with cases?" he asked incredulously. As far as Lestrade could remember, Sherlock had been a tenaciously clever young man if not slightly rude, arrogant and socially awkward. "What happened?" Lestrade murmured as he helped him stagger down the street. "They stopped letting me help. I got bored," said Sherlock simply. Lestrade shook his head as they rounded a street corner and stopped at the front door to his flat. Lestrade propped Sherlock up against the wall whilst he opened the door before dragging Sherlock up the stairs and dumping him on the sofa. Sherlock lay quite still, staring out of the window and before Lestrade could return with a cup of coffee and some pyjamas, he was fast asleep.

Four hours later, Sherlock was pulled from his nearly comatose sleeping state by the rumbling of his stomach, which had reacted fiercely to the smell of fried bacon emanating from across the room. Sherlock staggered over to the kitchen island and gripped the edge tightly for balance, staring quizzically as Lestrade placed a cooked breakfast and coffee in front of him. Sherlock carefully perched himself on the high stool and picked up the fork, spearing a mushroom on the end of it before hesitantly placing it in his mouth. Instantly his body recognised the rare taste of food and he groaned involuntarily as he began almost savagely carving up the bacon and sausages into smaller, more manageable pieces and then shovelled it into his mouth, dignity and pride lost in the alleyway he had been pulled from. Lestrade looked at Sherlock for a few seconds before deciding to leave him to it and took his coffee over to the window to survey London in the early morning.

Not ten minutes later, Sherlock was by his side, coffee in hand, gazing out as the deep blue hue began to lighten and fade and streaks of warm golden orange permeated the sky. He sipped contemplatively, wondering whether to acknowledge that his shoes and coat had been removed and had been replaced with a warm blanket. That Lestrade had run down to the Tesco Express at about 2 in the morning to buy bacon and sausages and the other components to a full English breakfast. That the few ounces of coke that had remained in the inner pocket of his coat had been flushed down the toilet and that his brother had been contacted and was coming to escort him to a very private rehabilitation centre in the middle of nowhere. Instead of bringing all of that up and how he knew about it and how everyone always sees but never observes, for the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes went for the simple option.

"Thank you," he murmured softly as the sun rose above the rooftops of the houses, making the city look as if it were gilded. Lestrade nodded simply without looking at him. "How are you feeling?" he asked as Sherlock took a few more gulps of coffee and set his mug down on the coffee table just as a firm knock was heard from downstairs. "Oh I'm fine," he said as he slipped his shoes on and tugged on his coat. "Just like that old song – it's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life for me, and I'm feeling good."


	4. Chapter 4

It was the sound of footsteps, light and carefully placed, that brought him out of his mind palace. At first he was annoyed - he was just about to find themissing piece to the particularly nasty Leeds triple homicide, but when he saw the face of his flatmate peek round the corner of the living room door, haunted and pale, his annoyance was completely forgotten. John looked apologetically at Sherlock as he sat up from his reclined pose on the sofa.

"Sorry, nightmare," John murmured as he slipped into the room and limped into the kitchen. Sherlock followed him with his eyes, watching his trembling figure retreat into the kitchen, shoulders hunched, eyes cast downward. He heard the tap running followed by the click of the kettle being put on. John shuffled back into the living room and collapsed into his armchair. The harsh orange glow of the streetlamp outside lit up his face, sharpening his features and making the hollows beneath his eye clearly visible and accentuating the worry lines that creased his forehead and tightened his eyes.

Sherlock observed carefully as John began his technique of counting to a hundred to calm down, watching his lips move silently and his eyelids twitch. The kettle finished boiling with a click and a flourish of bubbles but John didn't notice and continued counting. Sherlock estimated that he was only on the number thirty or so, and by the time John reached a hundred, the water wouldn't be hot enough to make tea and he would have to boil it again. So the only logical course of action would be for Sherlock to make the tea. So he did. Just the way John liked it - strong and without sugar. Sherlock didn't question why he hadn't deleted that particular fact from his hard drive as he poured water into two mugs and retrieved the milk from the fridge, which was thankfully not spoilt. He didn't know how Mrs Hudson liked her tea, he didn't even know if Lestrade was a tea person or if he preferred coffee. If he knew these things at some point, he'd deleted it by now. But with John, it was different. Because John was his flatmate. No, something more. More like a...friend. Sherlock had a friend.

He was still musing over the fact when he handed the steaming mug of tea to a shocked John and climbed back into his chair to sit cross-legged. John looked suspiciously at Sherlock and the contents of the mug before taking a hesitant sip. A small smile broke across his face and Sherlock suddenly recalled all the other times he'd seen this aesthetically pleasing feature of his roommate. Like when Sherlock had correctly deduced the culprit of a confusing crime, or when they had gone to that bar to do some recon work and John had managed to pick up a suitably attractive woman to get with. Or when Sherlock had finished that composition he had been working on. Or when he had a particularly satisfying cup of tea. Ah so he had kept it because...he liked the way John smiled. And wanted to know how to make him smile if he needed it. Because they are friends.

John stared at his odd flatmate who was looking at him over the rim of his mug. He took another sip of tea. "Thank you," he said finally and Sherlock blinked. "You're welcome," he replied and gulped his cooling tea. They sat there in silence, drinking tea and thinking. It was only when Sherlock lifted the mug to his lips but found no tea meeting them that he realised the cup was empty. He set it down and continued his observation of Doctor Watson. What he saw now was startlingly different from what he saw on a day to day basis. Usually, he saw what Mycroft had observed - a man who missed the war and the action and adrenaline. But now it was clear that his therapist wasn't completely useless, because John was definitely being haunted by war. Just one episode, but one near death experience is enough to haunt anyone for a lifetime. Sherlock guessed it was the time when he was shot in the left shoulder and then because of that he developed PTSD, got a psychosomatic limp, got sent home, etc. But Sherlock had seen John after one of those dreams before - it affected John for a while but a cup of tea and counting usually made it go away. Sometimes he didn't even have to count all the way up to one hundred. But today was different. He hand finished counting, the cup was empty and yet John still had this dark shadow in his eyes.

"Ok, what is it? Do I have dried drool on my chin or is my hair sticking up all over the place? Or do I just look particularly pathetic tonight?" questioned John with narrowed eyes. Sherlock looked confusedly at John. "What makes you think that?" he asked. John rolled his eyes as if it was obvious, an action that was usually reserved specifically for Sherlock to carry out.

"Well for starters you haven't stopped staring at me since you sat down and usually you would have resumed roaming your mind palace but you haven't and don't even get me started on the fact that you made tea. I mean, I was under the impression that you didn't know how to operate a kettle," said John sarcastically and Sherlock looked taken aback. "Come now John I've made you tea a countless number of times," he said, defending himself. "We've been living together for almost a year now and I can probably count the number of times you've made me tea on one hand," laughed John, relieving his eyes of some of the burden they had been weighed down with. Sherlock laughed with him, enjoying the way his low baritone hum harmonised with John's slightly higher pitched chuckle.

"But really, Sherlock, what's on your mind?" asked John with genuine concern as he set down his mug, completely surprising Sherlock. The man had been through a traumatic experience and he was asking if Sherlock was alright. John's compassion and caring nature was something that Sherlock promised himself to never break nor take advantage of.

"What's on my mind, is what could be on your mind, so to speak," he said cryptically, looking into John's eyes and staring intently. John frowned. "What do you mean? Like, what am I thinking about now?" he suggested and Sherlock shook his head, allowing a couple of unruly curls to fall into his eyes.

"Not so much what you are thinking about now," he explained as he brushed the curls from his face, "but more like what you were dreaming about earlier. I know it was probably about the war but I'm almost certain it is not about you getting shot." John raised a quizzical eyebrow at the statement. "How did you know?" he said and the left corner of Sherlock's lips twitched into a one-sided smile.

"Firstly, you were limping slightly as you came into the room; it wasn't as pronounced as when we first met, but it was noticeable, meaning the dream was traumatic enough to cause you to start limping again. Usually after a nightmare, you are able to walk normally, so I know this is no ordinary nightmare, if there is such thing," he added and John nodded. "Anything else?"

"Of course. You were trembling - that's new. Obviously the dream was more traumatic than usual, causing more adrenaline to be released, making you tremble. Then you counted to one hundred-"

"That's my calming technique, I always do that," interjected John, but Sherlock continued with his deductions. "Yes I know, but this time you counted all the way to one hundred, which you usually don't have to do. You normally feel calm enough to stop once you get to about seventy but not today, so the recovery period is longer, so the nightmare was worse. Even after you finished your tea, there's still this...dark shadow in your eyes and your shoulders are still slumped and the fact that this is your first nightmare in almost six months straight is telling. I think something more happened to you out there, something you thought you'd repressed and had under control but now it's resurfaced and you're struggling," he finished and John looked down into his lap where he was holding his hands together tightly. "Hundred percent correct, as usual," he said softly, not looking Sherlock in the eye. Something pulled on the heartstrings in Sherlock's chest at the sound of how broken John sounded. "Tell me," he said simply, the gentleness and kindness in his voice shocking both John and himself. John swallowed nervously.

"It was my first tour of Afghanistan. Years and years ago. Our little unit of army doctors, made up of me, my mate James and two other guys who were soon transferred out to Iraq, was flown out to this minefield that a patrol car had driven into. It was horrific, absolutely devastating. The car had been blasted to pieces and so had almost everyone inside. Out of about twelve people, only four had survived, and not a single one of the survivors was whole. Each of them had something missing, be it an arm or a leg or both. Terrifying. Anyway, one of the men had been flung from the car far out into the minefield. He was still alive, we could hear his shouts for help, but he couldn't get up because both his legs had been blown off. We knew that if we didn't get to him soon, he would die from blood loss, but we still had to navigate the minefield without getting blasted ourselves. But James, he was the impulsive type. He just loved to rush into things. And if there was anything he loved more than rushing into things, it was being the hero. Before I could say anything, he had dashed off towards the man, medical kit in hand. We were screaming at him to come back, to be careful but he wouldn't listen. He thought he was bloody invincible. I, being me, dashed off after him, but not a second later, boom. He'd stepped on a mine and he was gone. I was thrown backwards onto the ground and all I could do was watch as we lost James and the other soldier. He was blown up, right before my eyes. I had never seen anything like it," John said quietly, not realising that tears had begun to roll freely and silently down his cheeks.

Sherlock looked on, horrified, unable to say anything. He had seen some terrible crimes, gruesome and gory. He knew John had seen his fair share too, but this was different. This was personal. He imagined it would have been fractionally easier if the man had been a stranger, someone John barely knew. No, it wouldn't, it would still be extremely scarring, but this was his friend.

The silence was weighted and almost crushing him. He had to break it. "I'm so sorry, John," he murmured. John looked up at him, wiping away the tears quickly. "Don't be ridiculous Sherlock, why are you apologising? It happened ages ago, it's not your fault is it? So there's no need to apologise," he said resolutely. But Sherlock shook his head.

"No, I know that, but it's hard to say anything else. I'm not good with emotion at the best of times and downright awful at the worst, but apologising feels like the right thing to do. If our roles were reversed, hypothetically of course, tell me what you would say instead," he said. John nodded in agreement. "You're right, of course you are. I would have said exactly the same thing," he said, looking out of the window. But that feeling, the tugging on his heartstrings wouldn't subside as he looked at John. He needed to see him smile.

"There must be something," he said suddenly, causing John to whip his head back to look at him, "something I can do to help." John smiled sadly. That wasn't the smile Sherlock wanted to see. "That is very kind and unusually thoughtful of you Sherlock," said John, causing Sherlock to scowl and his lips to draw upwards into the ghost of a genuine smile, "But I think the best thing for me to do right now is sleep," he said as he got up and collected the two mugs and went into the kitchen to wash up. But Sherlock wasn't taking no for an answer. When did he ever take no for an answer? _Think_, he told himself, _that's what you do best isn't it? Use that big brain to come up with a way to make him feel better._

Suddenly it hit him. _Music_.

He jumped up and picked up his violin, checking to see if it was in tune. John came back into the living room, eyebrows raised. "Sherlock, I normally tolerate your violin abuse but I'd actually like to get some sleep," he said, yawning. Sherlock ignored him and steered him back to his seat, also ignoring the quizzical look he received.

"Sherlock what are you doing? I want to-" complained John but stopped midsentence when Sherlock gave him a stern look. Instead of continuing to object, John rolled his eyes and settled back in his chair. Sherlock placed the violin on his shoulder and leaned into it, closing his eyes and positioning his fingers. Then he began to play. He played a song that he had been composing for a while now, something that he had been writing but never put into practice. And for something that had just been theoretical a minute ago, it sounded wonderful, he thought, without being too immodest. His fingers moved swiftly over the strings, creating the peaceful melody that managed to make his heart ache and soar at the same time. He opened his eyes and looked out of the window, just in time to watch the sun peek over the rooftops and allow its first golden rays to sneak into the flat, colouring everything it touched in a life affirming shade of warmth. He continued playing, not looking at John though - he wanted to savour his reaction until the end. Finally, the piece came to its natural end and Sherlock placed the violin back in its spot before whirling around to look at John.

John sat motionless in his seat, jaw slightly dropped and eyes wide. Wide and brimming with tears. "Was it really so terrible?" asked Sherlock jokingly, causing John to snap his mouth shut and shake his head vigorously. "Don't be an idiot Sherlock. And don't get too full of yourself either when I tell you it was one of, if not _the_ most beautiful things I have ever heard in my entire life," he said softly, glancing over at his best friend. "Thank you."

"Don't be an idiot John," he said, echoing the man's words from moments ago, "it was the least I could do." Sherlock looked out of the window again. The sun was marginally higher in the sky, letting more light flood the apartment. "Is there any point of you going to bed now John?" he asked, turning to face him. "I suppose there isn't," John sighed and leant back into his chair.

And they stayed up until the sun was high in the sky, just talking. Sherlock managed to coax that smile out a numerous number of times and the shadow finally disappeared from John's eyes. When John was having trouble keeping his eyes open he finally stood up and stretched. "I'm going to go and sleep. Night, Sherlock. Or should I say 'good morning' instead?" he chuckled. Sherlock smiled at him and went back to recline on the sofa. "Morning, John," he said as John disappeared back up the stairs. He closed his eyes and delved back into his mind palace, trying to find the missing piece to the murder. He was sure he was missing something small. Wait. The earring.

_**A/N: The final two chapters are a work in progress and non-existent respectively. Although I can't promise a thing about when they'll be up, review may just speed the process by fueling my creative spirit, etc etc. Virtual cookies are still on offer!**_


End file.
